DAD! (Part 11 of 15) by JB

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Henderson's foot tapping revs up to 100 miles per hour.

Jack nudges the barber chair and sends it rotating slowly away from his workbench. Greg Henderson, intently observing from the waiting area, notices that as the chair swivels around, patches of Steve's white scalp on the sides and back of his head, flash into view through his short, squared-off hair. He emits a pathetic little puppy dog whimper.

Jack hangs the clippers on the rack, grabs a water bottle, and sprays the hair on top of Steve's head. With a comb and blow dryer, he gets the hair standing upright in preparation for clippering it down flat, "Didn't take much to get yer hair to stand up... just like Scott's," Jack says.

"Yeah, Scott has super thick hair, even thicker than mine. His mom, too. Guess he inherited his thick, springy hair from both of us."

Henderson doesn't realize yet that Steve is getting his deck mowed down to a flattop. A monolog goes on inside his head, "Why'd the barber comb his hair up like that? It looks stupid... Maybe he's going to shape it into a pompadour... Yeah, I bet that's it."

Jack runs a comb through Steve's longish hair on top, "I'm thinkin' about an inch here in front. That sound about right?"

Henderson misinterprets the conversation, "An inch!?" He shouts inside his head, "Yer gonna take a whole inch off the top? His hair isn't much more than two inches long as it is!"

"Hmm," Steve says, "Better make it three-fourths of an inch. That'll give it more of a classic look."

"Three-fourths it is, then," Jack replies.

Henderson breathes another sigh of relief, "Yeah, that sounds better," he thinks, "If he takes three-fourths of an inch off, that'll leave his hair just under two inches long on top... I can deal with that... I'll still be able to get my hair to lay down... Yeah, that's not too bad." Of course, Jack isn't talking about how much he's going to take off, he's talking about how much of Steve's hair he's going to leave behind; three-fourths of an inch at the front hairline.

Jack grabs his favorite pair of clippers from the rack along with a flattopper comb and flicks the comb through Steve's front hairline a few times. The clippers come on [Clack! hummm] and Jack gives his usual caution when commencing to take a customer's deck down flat, "I guess I don't need to tell ya to hold still while I use the clippers on yer top, but I'll say it anyway; hold still."

Steve gives a little smirk at hearing Jack's admonition, "Just like old times," he says.

Holding the comb near the agreed upon height, Jack slides the clippers across the teeth of the comb, sending a longish clump of Steve's dark hair onto the cape. Jack repositions the comb a little lower and swipes it over the same spot, leaving Steve's front hairline a perfect three-fourths of an inch long.

In the waiting area, Henderson frowns. He's not sure what he's seeing.

Jack positions the comb behind Steve's shortened, upright hairline and takes another careful swipe with the clippers. More hair goes tumbling onto the cape. After another swipe, Steve's white scalp is coming into view; the start of his landing strip.

Henderson's nervous foot tapping comes to an abrupt halt. He sits, stunned with his eyes bulging. His internal monolog continues, "A flattop!.. The guy's getting a flattop!.. No,no,no,no,no."

His buddy, Matt Cunningham, also realizes what's happening. He grins from ear-to-ear and silently mouths the word, "Jackpot!" This is exactly the haircut he was hoping his pledge, Henderson, would end up getting when he brought him to this old-fashioned workingman's barbershop. He glances over and sees the look of horror on Greg's face. He whispers, "Well, would you look at that, Henderson. The guy's getting himself a flattop! A good ol' fifties-style flattop! And just look at that landing strip going down the middle; his white scalp showing through the super-short hair there. Yes sir, looks like you picked a winner, Henderson."

Henderson's face is getting as pale as Steve's emerging landing strip, "Ungh," he whimpers quietly.

Jack slides the clippers across Steve's hair a couple more times, removing the last of his tapercut and leveling his top to its full boxy flatness. The landing strip shines big and bright through the stubble atop his head, in contrast to the dark furry velvet that surrounds it.

Henderson, knowing that he's going to suffer the same fate, can't take it anymore. He panics. His 'fight-or-flight' instinct kicks in and he abruptly jumps to his feet. He's unsure what to do next; the scared antelope inside him is saying 'Run away! Flee! Leave this barbershop and don't look back!' While the alpha-male lion inside him is saying 'Sit back down! Take it like a man!'.

His buddy Matt, as well as Jack and Steve are staring at him standing there, wondering what he's up to. Still unsure what to do, Henderson turns and faces the wall behind him. Matt asks aloud, "Whatcha doin', bro?"

Thinking quickly, Henderson tries to salvage the situation, "What? Oh... just lookin' at all these old photos on the wall here."

That explanation seems to do the trick. Steve grins and points to a spot on the wall, "There's one of me up there, too! That's me over there; second row, just to the left of center. That young, good-lookin' football player with the cool flattop. Take a look at that awesome landing strip!"

Henderson looks at the photo, "Nice," he manages to say. He senses that his knees are about to buckle so he takes his seat again. Matt looks at him with a cocked eyebrow; half worried, half suspicious. Henderson avoids his gaze.

Jack is finishing the upper edges of Steve's haircut, "This flattop yer gettin' now is a dead ringer for the one in that photo, and that was back in 1955. Yer hair's still thick and dense. A few gray hairs, but just as cool; just as awesome. Yer hairline hasn't receded at all."

Greg Henderson's shoulders are hunched forward with an elbow resting on one knee. His hand is loosely covering his chin and mouth. His eyes have a vacant, hollow look. He looks like that poor schnook on the Sistine Chapel ceiling; the one who has just realized that he has lost his soul and is damned for eternity. His internal monolog continues, "I give up... I'm not going to fight it anymore. It is what it is. Just accept it. I'll be leaving here with my sides squared-up and my top leveled-off; looking like I just stepped out of a 1955 yearbook." He sighs.

Jack loosens the cape and discards the neck strip to trim the short hairs at the base of Steve's neck, "So, you and Scott have your father/son flattops again; just like you did when he was a kid."

"Yeah. I hadn't thought of that, but you're right," Steve replies, "Guess I should have a photo taken of the two of us with our new flattops. I'm sure Scott would like that," he lies.

Jack swivels the chair around to face the mirrors again, "So how's it look?"

Steve runs his hand up and over his landing strip repeatedly, "Yep! It's feels great havin' a flattop again after all those years of havin' a tapercut. I mean, I liked the tapercut, too. But nothin' beats havin' a flattop. I don't know why I waited so long to get my deck lowered again."

Henderson can't help but think, "Man, if that guy had waited just one more day to get his flattop, or even one more hour, I would've walked outa here with a nice layer-cut like that kid we saw outside the shop." He sighs again.

Jack applies a little talc to his duster brush and whisks the loose hairs away from Steve's neck, ears, and face. "Now then," he says, "How's about a little Butch Wax? I know you liked using it back before you started wearing yer tapercut."

"Oh, you bet!" Steve replies, "But not too much though; I don't want it all stiff and shiny. I like my hair more natural looking. Use just enough to get my flattop lookin' tall and proud... Oh, that reminds me; I need to buy a new jar of the stuff from you. I just gave my old jar to Scott's friend, Kevin, to use on that awesome lookin' flattop you just gave him."

"Geez," Henderson thinks, "Do all the guys in this part of town have flattops? Sounds like I was doomed from the moment I set foot in this place."

The mention of Kevin's flattop causes jack to open and close his fist a couple of times, "Yeah, my hands are still a little sticky from the Butch Wax I used on Kevin's hair." He scoops a dab of the wax out of the jar and rubs it between his palms. He spends the next few seconds lightly massaging the Butch Wax into Steve's hair, leaving his flattop looking rather disheveled, like he slept on it wrong.

After wiping his hands on a towel, Jack uses a bristle brush and the blow dryer to get Steve's flattop back into shape. The heat from the dryer softens the wax and spreads it evenly, coating every hair with a slight sheen. The brush lifts and separates each hair giving Steve's flattop a thick, plush appearance, just like the bristles on the brush itself.

Over in the waiting area, there is no more nervous foot tapping; no more whimpering. Greg Henderson has stoically accepted his fate... But he's not at all happy about it, "C'mon," he thinks, "Let's get this bogus haircut over with!"

In the barber chair, Steve Kramer is having a few thoughts of his own as he looks in the mirror in front of him, "Wow. That blow dryer really got my hair lookin' great! It's standin' up perfectly straight... I might have to borrow Scott's blow dryer to keep my flattop lookin' this good... He won't be needin' it till his hair grows back out long enough to comb," he smirks.

Jack sets his tools down and lifts the cape away, shaking off the dark clumps of hair, "There ya go, Steve. Whaddya think?"

Steve climbs out of the chair and steps toward the mirror to get a closer view of himself. He leans forward, placing his burly hands on the countertop and tilts his head from side to side. Seeing his chiseled flattop, his rugged features, and his heavy 5 o'clock shadow; Steve looks, from head to toe, like the hardhat construction foreman that he is. He likes what he sees, "Awesome job on the flattop, Jack. You've still got the magic touch." He runs his hand up the back of his head and across his landing strip, "I look like my young self again." He tilts his head down a bit, "Best damned landing strip I've ever seen!" He grins.

Matt Cunningham can't help but twist the knife a little deeper, "Isn't that the best landing strip you've ever seen, Henderson?" he whispers, "It's huge! And look how it shines so white down the top of his head! Yes sir, that is one excellent landing strip."

Henderson repositions himself in his chair. It seems he's not quite as cool and calm as he is trying to make himself believe. His internal monolog continues, "It's just a haircut... It'll grow back... It's just a haircut... No big deal... It's just a haircut..."

Steve pulls his wallet out from his back pocket, "Oh, almost forgot..." With large strides, he walks over to a display case near the window, his work boots clomping heavily on the tile floor, "New jar of Butch Wax!" he says, grabbing a jar from the case. He clomps back to where Jack is standing and hands him a wad of bills from his wallet, "There's a couple extra there for the Butch Wax, and a couple extra for yourself." He slides his wallet back into his pocket, "Guess I'll be seein' you a lot more often, Jack, now that I've got this flattop to take care of. I'll be in every two or three weeks to keep it lookin' sharp!"

Jack places the money into his cash drawer, "Bring Scott in with you, too. From what you've told me, I'm sure he's gonna want to keep that industrial-sized landing strip of his lookin' as big as all outdoors."

Steve chuckles, "Yeah, I'm sure yer right about that," he lies, "And I bet you'll be seein' Kevin in here every couple of weeks, too. He's in love with his flattop even more than Scott... or me!"

"Goofy kid," Jack states, recalling Kevin's mood swings as he was getting his flattop just a short while ago.

"Got that right," Steve replies, "But he's always been that way, for as long as we've known him." He turns slightly toward the mirror and bends forward to catch a last glimpse of himself before leaving. He pats the deck of his flattop, "Yep, I'll be seein' ya again real soon, jack!" With three long strides, he clomps toward the door and exits the shop, whistling as he goes.

Over in the waiting area, Henderson exhales. The time has arrived. He ponders his misfortune, thinking, "Man. If only we'd gotten here a few minutes earlier... before Paul Bunyan showed up."


(To Be Continued)

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